by W Winters
With his legs spread, he leans back with his drink, his gaze moving between me and the fire, but landing on me in the end when I don’t take my gaze from his.
He sips his drink rather than responding and I tell him, “I won’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Blame myself.”
“Then don’t,” he answers easily enough. My bottom lip wavers until I take another unsteady sip and close my eyes.
“What you did yesterday…” I trail off as I remember how I felt on his desk and the wave is an onslaught to my confidence.
The sound of him leaning forward forces my eyes to open wide, the sofa groaning, before I feel him closer to me.
“What did I do that was so wrong that you felt the need to make an excuse?” His question holds a taste of menace.
“You wanted to humiliate me.”
“The fuck I did.”
Anger rolls off of me in harsh and unforgiving waves. “Yes you did, you acted like I—”
“I wanted you to know how I coped with you leaving; I wanted you to feel it.” His words are rushed, pushed through gritted teeth. Clearly he’s referring to the note. Which is an entirely different matter.
“You had me lay on that desk so you could prove your power over me.” I know that’s why. I know it is and I can’t even breathe as I wait for him to deny it. “To demean me.”
He shakes his head. “I wanted to taste you again, that’s not humiliating.”
“Could any pussy taste that good?” I mock him, feeling that humiliation once again.
“I didn’t say it like that,” he speaks clearly, sucking on a piece of melted ice between his teeth. He lets it fall back to his empty glass. It pisses me off how he hides the emotion he clearly had a moment ago.
“How is that not humiliating?”
“I wasn’t aiming for humiliation,” he admits. His gaze unwavering, he fixes me with a calm and dominating stare, not moving. “I was just telling the truth.”
Not knowing how to respond, I move to the next item on the list. “Worse, you wanted me to feel bad about the note. You wanted me to feel guilty.”
“You are guilty. You’re the one who left.” Again his answer is matter of fact. Guilty. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the word. As if all of this is my fault. The control he has makes me lose what little of it I have.
“You’re the one who didn’t change!”
“You’re the one who wanted me to change.”
I don’t know how I’m able to stand, my legs feel so weak. But I do, as quickly as I can, reaching for my purse to leave.
“Sit down.” Seth’s authority makes me pause.
“Everything hurts,” I admit to him. “I can’t be here without hurting. I can’t see you without hurting.”
When I look down at Seth, through the glaze of tears I hold back, I feel a wave of fear and desire mix. It swirls through my blood and I lose my own thoughts, my concentration. I lose everything to the way he looks at me.
“You’re going to do what I say, because you want to… and there’s no humiliation in that.”
“I never said I wanted to.”
“You’re here early, Babygirl. You didn’t have to say it.” Babygirl. The desire is immediate and warms everything. He stands and steps forward, taking my purse and tossing it back down onto the table. My breath comes faster, my head feeling lighter.
He whispers, his lips only inches from mine. “Know that I want you, too, because I stare at that painting every day, wishing I could go back to that moment.”
Taking his seat again, he repeats, “Sit down.” And this time I do.
“You’re going to obey me, because it will take that pain and that guilt away.”
I close my eyes slowly, careful to hold back any tears and calm myself down. “Not everything. I don’t agree to doing whatever you say.”
His answer is spoken with confidence. “You will. You’re better at it now than you were back then.”
“Don’t do that,” I say and glare at him. Feeling a wash of anxiousness.
“What?”
“Bring up the past.” My heart thrashes in my chest, as if it’s at war.
“You will do what I say, and I will be mindful of what I tell you to do and how I say it.” Seth’s proposition eases a burning pain that’s quick to ignite every time I think back to what used to be.
As he waits for me to agree or to continue this fight, I consider what he said… the guilt.
God it hurts.
“I just want it to stop,” I whisper, feeling the pricks at the back of my eyes.
“Want what to stop?”
“The guilt.” Admitting it out loud brings a torrent of emotion.
“Strip down,” Seth commands me, not responding to the emotion I’m clearly displaying. Not giving it any credence in the least. He doesn’t try to comfort me, and damn my desire, I want him to. I want to crawl into his lap, I want to beg for his forgiveness.
“Strip down to nothing,” he demands in a calm and controlled voice. His glass clinks as he sets it on the table and then leans back, his large hands clasped as he waits for me to obey.
The discord of what I want, what I need, who I am and what I used to be rips apart who I know myself to be.
The crackle of the fire feels like a whip against my bare shoulder when I slip off the cardigan. It glides slowly down my skin and I feel it settle against my shoes into a puddle of fabric. The blush tank top is harder to take off. Not physically, but emotionally.
I’m so aware of the fear. I feel like nothing when he looks at me. But I want to feel like everything. I have to close my eyes to do it, to pull the tank top over my head and do as he wishes.
“Look at me,” he says and it’s as though his command physically strikes me. Inhaling and exhaling, controlling my breathing and holding on to the fact that I refuse to leave here without trying, I do it.
I don’t know what I’m trying to do though. Even as I kick off my shoes and my jeans are stripped from me by my own hands, I don’t know what I want.
As if reading my mind, Seth sits up straighter on the sofa, his erection evident against his suit pants. The fabric is tighter along his length, outlining it and he rubs it once before telling me, “You want to feel better and so do I.”
I do.
God, I desperately do.
His eyes darken, the fire flickering within them. “Your bra and then your underwear.”
I do as he says. The clasp easily parting and the sound of my bra hitting the floor is louder than it ought to be.
When I step out of my underwear, I’m a half step closer to him, but before I give in and let go, I make him promise me something. “Tell me you don’t just want to embarrass me and toy with me.”
I can’t explain why it means so much to me. But I need to believe it’s more than that for him.
“I want to toy with you, yes. But you were never embarrassed before. Humiliating you doesn’t get me off.” His gaze roams down my body, his lips parted as he exhales. “I want you to listen to me. That’s what it boils down to. I just want you to listen to me.”
He has to look away, back to his drink that’s empty when he tells me the last bit. He just wants me to listen. He stalks off, leaving me naked as he goes back to the kitchen, feeling miles away.
He thinks if I’d listened things would be different. The whispered explanation brings a new hurt and new guilt.
“Stop it. Stop thinking. Do what I tell you to.” Seth reappears without a glass in hand.
So many years have passed but I still want to please him. I wonder if that will ever change.
“What do you want?” I ask him as calmly as I can. I can still remember the first time I was conscious of that desire. I wanted to please him.
As I watch Seth push the coffee table toward the fireplace, I recall that night.
It was at the old bar, the one my father used to leave me at all the time growing up. And it was just after his funeral. Derr
ick called me “Babygirl.” Derrick did. I knew him to be a friend of Seth’s. I even liked him. He would look out for me. It was he who welcomed me into the bar to wait for Seth.
I wasn’t Derrick’s Babygirl and my reaction must’ve told him as much. “Oh,” he’d said with a smile. “You want that just for Seth, don’t you?” His question wasn’t teasing, only knowing. At that moment Seth walked in. Everything was chaotic back then, after Vito was killed. Seth’s father was in charge; he hadn’t been murdered yet in the war for that territory. Still, Seth was needed and commanded more than anyone else. It was like his father was grooming him.
Seth came in and needed a beer. Looking distracted, he kept heading to the bar but man after man stopped him. They needed him and he gave them the time they wanted. Those days, he still walked me to and from home at night. Just me, not letting anyone come with us. He made time for me. We hadn’t even kissed, but he liked to touch me when I was around him. He always held my hand, touched my back; he’d run his finger down the back of my neck absently when Derrick talked to him. He hadn’t done a damn thing sexual, but it felt like everything to me that he wanted me near enough to touch. He never made the first move though. Not that quickly after things changed, and not for months later.
I was no one when it came down to it, and he was going to be everything. I could feel it.
I would only be his Babygirl. With that thought in mind, I got a beer for him and put it in his hand as he talked. I wanted to please him, and I had. The way he looked at me, ignoring whoever had been speaking, did something inside of me.
I can feel the same stare now as Seth rounds me years later. He did exactly what I expected him to; he ruled, like the king he was meant to be.
Myself, on the other hand? I wasn’t even strong enough to be his Babygirl.
“Did you sleep last night?” Seth’s question brings my gaze to his, makes me focus on the present.
“Some,” I answer honestly. He doesn’t look in my eyes when he stands in front of me, because he’s focused on my chest. It’s not until his hot touch grips my right breast and my head falls back just slightly that his gaze reaches mine. With his thumb and forefinger, he rolls my nipple and I have to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from moaning out at the sharp pleasure.
“Did you touch yourself?”
“What?” My eyes widen as I betray myself. I know it’s obvious. I’ve never been a good liar.
“You used to. You used to punish me with it too. Taking care of yourself and letting me know you had.” He squeezes my left nipple harder than the right, causing me to lean forward until he pulls back. A wave of pleasure rushes through me, stirring in my belly when he releases his hold.
With my lips parted, I breathe in deeply, sucking in a breath when Seth does it again. Both of my nipples, both at once.
“Look at me,” he commands and I do. Staring into the depths of his eyes as he rolls my nipples between his deft fingers. “Did it feel like this?”
“No,” I answer immediately.
“Did you think of me?” he questions and I hate to admit it, I hate knowing I thought of the good moments with him. All the nights I gave myself completely to him.
I can’t answer verbally, so I only nod.
He plucks them both at once and the hot sensation is linked to my clit. I nearly stumble from the pleasure.
“You’re a bad submissive.” Hearing him say submissive forces a smile to grace my lips. He turns away from me, moving to a chest that sits by the fireplace, just under the painting hung on the wall. Standing there, watching his muscular shoulders, I dare to toy with him. “You’re not my dom.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Babygirl.” He stands up as he breathes out, holding a leather paddle in his right hand and slapping it down on the palm of his left. I instantly clench, feeling how hot and wet I am already. His burning gaze heats my own as he tells me, making his way to me, “Your body knows it. One day you’ll get it through that thick skull of yours.”
My body’s tense with the sight of the paddle. Braided strips of black leather are wrapped around the entire length. His gaze is heated when he tells me to bend over and grab the back of the sofa, but not to rest my knees on the cushion.
It’s awkward to stand like this, since I’m so short. I listen though, knowing full well he plans to use that paddle on my ass.
Thwack! He doesn’t waste any time. The moment both my hands grip the sofa, he spanks me with it. The burning pain ricochets through me, starting at my right ass cheek, and I swear, by the time it returns to my core, it feels like heaven. The pain and pleasure are braided together as tightly as the leather.
Seth takes his time, kicking my clothes out of the way before touching his palm to my heated flesh. He squeezes my sore cheeks and in return, I moan a strangled sound. Leaning my forehead against his sofa, I try to keep still when he smacks my ass with the paddle again.
“Three times,” he tells me before quickly bringing the paddle down again. The pain is more intense this time, the strike unexpected and I scream out in brutal agony as my legs buckle and beg me to brace myself on the cushion of the sofa. I don’t though; balancing on the balls of my feet, I make sure I stay where I am. My face is contorted until the leather slips through my thighs, brushing against my clit. He rocks it, letting the pleasure build as he wraps my hair around his other wrist and pulls back so I can no longer rest on the back of the sofa. “No more touching yourself or all of your punishments will be as hard as that last one was. Understood?”
With my eyes closed, I agree. “Understood.”
He’s never been like this before. Never with me. The control, the patience, I know that is his nature, but this is so much… more.
He releases me too quickly, far before I’m ready to let go and fall from the cliff of my release. The pleasure wanes, the pain of my punishment returns and I find myself needy and turning around to see what he’s doing.
I turn at the perfect moment, seeing him in all his naked glory as he kicks off his pants, the last remaining garment covering him from me. Every inch of his body reminds me of Adonis. He is sex personified. My inhale is sharp when he turns around, and his gaze is narrowed as he tsks me.
“I didn’t say you could turn around,” he scolds me, although the lust in his voice and the desire in his gaze are so clear, it feels nothing like a reprimand.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” I argue lustily, setting the side of my head back down, taking him in and letting him know just how much I want him. How much I need him.
“Keep your eyes on me then,” he speaks calmly as he walks behind me. With one hand stroking himself, I can already see the beads of precum at his velvety head. “How many men did you fuck?” he asks and I blink twice, rapidly.
Hesitating, he urges me to answer with his hand splayed on my lower back. He brings his knuckles up my back to my shoulders and then back down.
“It’s been eight years,” I tell him as if that’s an answer. His erection presses between my folds, thick and hard as he rocks against me. The groan he lets out, fuck, I could cum to that sound any night. He bends down when I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation. With his hips pressing against my ass and his cock nudging my clit, the pleasure builds again.
“Open your eyes,” he commands, his stubble brushing against my shoulder and I watch as he closes his own and kisses the crook of my neck.
I miss this.
I have dreamed of him doing just this for years.
“How many men did you fuck?” he asks me again, this time in a whisper, his warm breath sending shivers of want down my body.
“Many,” I answer him and remember how none of them compared. How at first it was hard trying to find someone who I could hide my past from, but share my present. Then it was simply about trying to find anyone who could fill a portion of the void.
Seth chuckles, deep and rough, his chest vibrating against my back. “You’re my little slut now.” His comment only makes me hotter for
him.
“So tell me, my little whore, how many pricks got to play with what’s mine?”
“Not whore,” I argue, barely able to get out the words as I shake my head against the fabric and practically moan my reply. “Slut.” I repeat the word, clenching around nothing again and imagining him inside of me.
“My little slut,” he whispers and the feel of his warm breath along my skin brings the pleasure closer to the surface, closer to igniting all of me.
“How many pricks got to play with what’s mine?”
I stare back at him, unable to answer as he grips my hair at the back of my neck, still rocking his hips, still playing with me. Still wanting me.
I can’t speak as the pleasure builds.
“You’re not allowed to cum until I know how many times to deprive you. I need to know how many times.”
Defiantly, my back arches as my orgasm rips through me.
Seth stills behind me and I clench against the shaft of his cock. It’s a blinding pleasure. I can barely breathe.
“Ever defying me aren’t you, Babygirl?” Seth scolds me, taking more of my hair in his fist and pulling back when I look away from him. The tight grip sends a stinging pain along my skin, but it only heightens the pleasure.
“Does thinking about being punished get you off?” he asks.
“Thinking that you cared who I fucked… that gets me off.” The admission comes out willingly, easily.
Seth King still wants me. He wants me to be his. That realization comes with one of my own. I want to be his. I’ve been waiting to be his again.
Seth
It takes every ounce of control not to cum with her. Her cheeks are flushed, as pink as her ass where the braided marks have left impressions on her skin. She’s everything I remember and more.
The memories don’t do her justice.
Knowing how easy it was to get her off drives me insane. How much she still wants me, enough to let this strong woman, want to be called my little slut… fuck, I could cum without even entering her.
